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"Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation."

Through the ash dusting her eyelashes, the mud and dirt stuck to her face, the tears obscuring her view and collecting dirt as they ran down her cheeks—she could make out the ominous outline of a figure standing over her, a sly smile playing on his face as it held the knife above her chest. She didn't care if she was killed. She didn't care about anything anymore; only for the others to live.
A ray of sunlight peaked out from behind the man and warmed her skin. A mosquito buzzed by her ear. There was a nonchalant stab and a vague, bloodcurdling scream filled the summer air.

That was awful. e_e And not really a 'prlogue either, just a random excerpt. Bleh.

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"Bitch, you look like a fucking mudslide" ~Joan Rivers

__________________Mrs. Jensen: With him the customer was always number one. Oscar always treated people with great respect.Oscar Leroy: [suddenly enters] Hey jackass, stop talking to this old wing-nut and pump my gas!Brent LeRoy: Well, he's a people person.

Lacey: Karen, I'm glad you're here. Look, we need to talk about the book club.Karen Pelly: I thought the first rule of book club was, you don't talk about book club.Lacey: That's fight club.Karen Pelly: How do you know about fight club?